


Into the Woods

by InfinityIllusion



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted World Building, Blanket Permission, Brothels, F/F, Gen, Geralt is sir mostly not appearing in this fic, You've been warned, do not copy to another site, implied sex work by adults, no grammar beta we die like men, plant puns and innuendos, there are many OCs, work smarter not harder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23013532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfinityIllusion/pseuds/InfinityIllusion
Summary: In which Cirilla decides that wandering around in various forests and woods is not, actually, conducive to finding a person.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, OC & Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, OFC/OFC
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	1. In which Ciri makes a strategic decision and seeded teachings sprout a plan

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to Eastonia over on Tumblr and on Ao3 for all the help and ideas for this!!!
> 
> This is also largely in response to what I consider a bit of a breakdown at the end of the TV series, in that yes, Cirilla is running scared, but if her ultimate goal is to find someone, she needs to be around people. Given that the first time we see her she's pretending to be a boy and running with some of the lower-class people, she's at least got some training in blending in and all....plus that scene with her hair....
> 
> And thus this fic was born. Additionally, the prophecy that might not be a prophecy left quite a bit to interpretation.
> 
> And I'm choosing to re-word it so that it's "The girl in the woods will always be with you" because then this makes it that much funnier. It's for a good cause, I swear!
> 
> Please let me know if the brogue is wrong at all -- I tried, but I'm not from those parts!

* * *

Ciri fought back tears as she continued fighting through the forest underbrush. She couldn’t fault Dara for wanting to part ways, but she also couldn’t help feeling a little resentful. Dara had lost his family, as she had, so she had taken him as her new family. She’d thought he’d done the same, given the help he’d given her from the start….

Admittedly, her grandmother having led the army to kill his family, as she – and he – learned in the Forest of Brokilon made things more awkward…and he had nearly died at least three times she knew about since meeting her….

But wasn’t that what family was for? Standing tall, and protecting each other? Or was that something only she’d been taught?

Ciri shook her head, no. It wasn’t fair to Dara to blame him, just as she couldn’t help having the Nilfgaardians after her. Perhaps Geralt of Rivia, whoever he was, would…no, no dreaming or wondering now. Ciri would work harder, work smarter, to find him and try not to set herself up for disappointment in the meantime.

With that in mind, Ciri looked around her – she was in the middle of the forest, somewhere near Brokilon, with no road, or path, in sight. Sighing, she wandered over to sit on a raised root at the base of a tree.

She was the Lion Cub of Cintra, and she was no fool, nor should she just be running blind through the forest hoping to – to –  _ stumble _ across the man. She could and she would be smarter about this.

The first thing Mousetrap (and her heart gave a painful lurch at the thought of him) had taught her about finding something or someone was that you needed information. Had Ciri still been in the castle, she would have crept down to the kitchen to listen to the various servants and maids chatter, and then moved on to the empty hallway that back ended the lower nobility’s quarters, and then tried for the upper nobility. She would also have tried the stable and the barracks, depending on what it is she needed, but she was usually found rather quickly in those areas. None of her clothes quite fit in around the soldiers, nor the groomers, although she had been getting better at passing as a stableboy.

Ciri nodded to herself. First, information. To get the information, she needed to find where people would gossip, which probably meant an inn or a tavern if the area around the castle had been anything to go by. Consequently, this meant finding a road, and hoping to avoid the Nilfgaardians she knew would be around them (as well as likely bandits). Secondly – at least for finding Geralt of Rivia, she needed to fit in wherever it was people gossiped, so she could gather as much information as possible.

“Information,” she whispered to herself, “and fitting in.”

Fitting in, she decided as she checked what she could see of the sun to continue heading north, meant having an identity. Fiona would be her name, she was used to it and she’d been telling it to people already. Admittedly that could be a problem – having told people – but there were plenty of Fionas in the world and she would have to respond to whatever name she gave anyways…and it was something of home. As Fiona, her parents were dead, and her grandmother raised her. They had lived in the Cintran capitol, and her grandmother had died when Nilfgaard took the city. She, Fiona, had fled and been told to find Geralt of Rivia as her grandmother’s last request of her.

Ciri – Fiona, she should probably think of herself more as the nickname than anything directly connectable to Cirilla – was a maid. She could clean, and sew, and make very basic meals (all of which she had learned either as a punishment or as part of her princess or practical lessons that even her grandmother had insisted she attend). She could take orders, and had a good memory and grasp of languages.

Ciri – Fiona – frowned. Maybe she shouldn’t say that she knew as many languages as she did. She didn’t know the accent for people not learning a language as a part of their station, and she was sure that rulers and tavern-goers didn’t use the same accent or grammatical structure. At least, when she’d played knucklebones in the street, not everyone sounded quite like she did even in Common.

She also didn’t know enough curse words, for all that her grandfather could be persuaded to part with one or two of the milder curses if she asked him enough, with a cheeky smile and mischief in her eyes.

Alright, so she could say she understood a bit of other languages, maybe. Cintra hadn’t been a very open city, but she could say that she and her grandmother had lived near the merchants and that would plug that hole in her story. People who were merchants did talk more like she did, sometimes, if they were serving directly to the nobility or attempting to climb the ranks, so maybe she would have picked up some of that kind of language as a real maid.

Fiona continued trying to flesh out what she would say, the next time someone asked her about her story, and where she was from, and where she was going, and what a girl like her was doing wandering around alone in the forest, or alone on the road, or alone in town, depending on when she next stumbled across someone. Mostly she was trying to remember what she knew of the nicer merchant section of the city.

Night crept up on her, and she huddled in another gap between two trees that blocked the worst of the wind. She didn’t have any trail rations, and she wasn’t quite sure she knew which berries Dara had said weren’t poisonous when it was this dark out. She’d have to keep an eye out when she was walking tomorrow. Water, too. Snow was alright but it was hard to tell how clean it was, since it’d been awhile since it’d last snowed.

Fiona drifted off to sleep like that, wedged between two large trees, and running a list of necessities through her head in place of any kind of lullaby.

~IiI~

Fortunately, it was relatively simple to eventually stumble across a road as Ciri/Fiona continued north. She’d found one the next day. Unfortunately, she wasn’t quite sure what to do now that she had found one.

Considering the Nilfgaardian’s armor and horses, she should probably stick close to, but not on, the road…but then she might walk straight into a bunch of bandits.

Ciri eyed the road and her surroundings balefully as the thought of another stumbling point she hadn’t quite thought through appeared…but, she decided to risk the bandits. If need be, she could scream them away, probably. Being caught by Nilfgaardians would cause more problems, anyways.

She munched on a handful of dark berries she’d spied on a bush that Dara had made a point of pointing out every time they found one.

“ _ These _ are good,” he would say each time. “ _ Not _ the red ones.” She’d roll her eyes in playful response after the first five times he said it, but she made sure to memorize the berries she  _ could _ eat.

Fiona sighed. She hoped Dara was alright, and happier without her nearly getting him killed every day. There was a little kernel of resentment at the accusation that she would get him killed, but she couldn’t say that wasn’t true. He’d saved her and helped her so much more than she had him – and then she’d taken him from the place where he might’ve found peace….

The clop of a horse's hooves startled her out of her thoughts. There didn’t seem to be enough horses for a potential Nilfgaardian group of soldiers, nor enough clanking for their armor if it was a group of soldiers, but Ciri couldn’t help how her heart jumped to her throat at the thought of that lone commander at whom she’d had to scream in order to get away.

The clopping continued towards her, smooth and steady. Ciri’s heart pounded in her ears, almost obscuring the sound of the hooves.

There was a multitude of other sounds, though. Sounds she didn’t pick up on when she heard the horse, but from what she was hearing now they were practically on top of her and and set to pass right in front of her. Sounds of wheels, and creaking wood, and people chattering with each other. They didn’t all seem happy, but there’s no clash of armor or oppressive quiet among them.

Merchants. Not soldiers.

Ciri leaned against a tree in relief, and then hurried to stay within hearing, if not sight, of the caravan. If a group this large was going somewhere, and not in a hurry, then there must be a major town ahead, hopefully soon.

While she was trailing after the merchants, it occured to Ciri – Fiona – that she probably hadn’t managed to outpace the Nilfgaardians. They probably had an idea of what she looks like, since that one soldier didn’t die, and as the princess there were plenty of people who could describe her, and though she couldn’t change much, changing her hair was going to be something she has to do.

Fiona was loath to cut it, though – not that she had a knife with which to do so, at the moment. And keeping mud in her hair to disguise the color probably only partially worked, and she had nothing with which to tie it back... She was sure she’d missed spots in the past when she’d used mud, and if she was going to try and get a job, muddy hair wouldn’t help her. But maybe some of those dyes the maids would chatter on about their various ladies using, particularly those that involved dying hair dark.

(Ciri is proud of her hair; Fiona is scared of what it means for her life.)

She has no tea, nor coffee…but they might at the tavern, and she doubts that people care much for the scraps.

If she becomes a tavern maid, then she might be tasked with the scraps in the first place, and that’s easy enough to squirrel away for her own use. If she can trust someone enough to pack it into her hair, too, then that would be even better. Maybe a comment about how her lighter hair reminds her of her grandmother? It’s almost always been more silver than golden blond, but no one else needs to know that...and she can claim that the fright the Nilfgaardians gave her changed her hair some. Maybe, at least.

Fiona has a plan, she has contingencies and backups, like she was always encouraged (both by word and by example, courtesy of her grandfather) to have. She would survive.

~IiI~

Well, Fiona thought to herself as she stared down at the large town from the tree she’d partially climbed. Surviving started now. She picked her way carefully down the tree and through the last bit of brush covering the area by the road, and then over to one of the outer buildings that didn’t look like a house. She couldn’t quite make out what the sign said beneath the peeling paint, but it was clearly a well frequented place, given the wear and tear and mud on the front stoop and the porch.

The building, whatever it was (and Fiona was hoping it was a tavern – she was pretty sure it was), didn’t appear to be all that crowded, now, nor open, but she was pretty sure most of that has to do with the market currently taking place. Considering the presence of Nilfgaard in Cintra, trade would likely be disrupted for a time. Even if Nilfgaard made a point to not hassle merchants, few would be willing to brave random battles between rebels and Nilfgaardian patrols or armies. Fewer still would want to be mistaken as a band of refugees, considering what happened to the one camp at which she’d stayed the night….

Shaking her head to rid it of the gloomy memories and thoughts, Fiona looked for a place to watch the probable tavern. She found a patch of grass near the back corner of the building with a good view of the porch stairs, and settled down as if she were one of the other girls tagging along with their families and ducking out of chores like tending the carts or stands.

~IiI~

What she wasn’t expecting was the hand shaking her, and the husky voice saying, “Up ye get there, girlie.”

Fiona stiffened, and jerked back in surprise.

The lady who’d been shaking her rolled her dark eyes, but removed her hand from Fiona’s shoulder.

“Girlie, I’m jest gettin’ ye up ‘fore the night crowd gets in – don’t wan’ta be messin’ with those louts. Go back t’yer fam’ly’s cart, yeah?”

“I don’t have a family cart,” Fiona said. It’s not quite what she intended to say, but that’s what came out.

The lady raised an eyebrow. “No? Then how’d’ye come ‘round here?”

Fiona shrugged. “Walked.”

The lady sighed. “Lemme guess. ‘Nother Cintran refugee?”

Fiona nodded.

“Orphan?”

Fiona nodded again.

“Lookin’ fer work?”

Fiona nodded yet again. It was true enough – she didn’t have any kind of coin to pay for anything, and what little things she has she’d prefer to keep as the mementoes they are.

The lady sighed. “Well, ‘t’s not like I din’na need a new tavern girlie,” she said, before turning around.

“Keep up, we’ve a short bit o’time t’get ye sorted.”

Fiona hurried to follow the lady.

“M’name’s Quin,” the lady said over her shoulder.

“Fiona, ma’am,” she replied.

“Righ’, then, Fiona. T’nigh’ ye’ve wash duty. Washin’ dishes, plates, spoons n’ forks, tankards, cups. No washin’ people, ‘n if they dun’take ‘No’ fer an answer, ye bite ‘em, an’ bite ‘em hard, an’ scream, ‘Quin,’ yeah? Them’s here know the rules ‘n I dun allow any o’that. Whores ‘r whores, tavern girlies ‘r tavern girlies, and ev’reyone’s ‘lowed t’say ‘No’ eitherway.

“Ken wash yerself when yer done w’the dishes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Quin twisted her neck to eye her as they steped inside the tavern. “Mm, well. We’ll talk t’marra ‘bout pay ‘n all.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Righ’. Tub’s back there, yer cloak ken go up there, clean dishes go in piles on the count’r. Dinner’s ‘bout half-way through the nigh’.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Quin nodded at her and left Fiona to the pile of dishes on the floor. She tossed her cloak up where Quin nodded she could, grabed the chunk of soap and a rag, and gets started on the dishes.

The water is cold, the soap is harsh, but there was a fire one room over whose heat can be felt even here, she was going to have dinner tonight, and this was the most comfortable (and warmest, despite the water’s chill) Fiona had been since the dryads and her plan was  _ working _ .

(Ciri was a little worried at how well her plan was working. What was left was to listen and pretend and to continue to establish her identity so she wasn’t caught, to listen to gossip, and to find Geralt of Rivia from that gossip.)

While she worried her worries away under soap and cold water and a rag, Quin eventually popped her head in the doorway.

“Dinner,” she called, and Fiona quickly placed the soap on the floor, the rag on the side of the tub, and raced to follow Quin to her dinner.

“Hoo, girlie, no’ so fast,” Quin said dryly to her as Fiona all but fell upon her dinner, served in the room next to the one she was scrubbing dishes in -- the one with the fire. She wasn’t alone with Quin, there were other girls and women, too, but Fiona didn’t have enough strength of will right now to worry about that when there was hot food in front of her and a warm fire near her. “Plenty more where tha’ came from, t’night an’ t’marra. Dun make yerself sick on ‘t.”

“It’s fantastic,” Fiona mumbled around a bite of stew, but slowed her chewing so she didn’t choke.

One of the other girls chuckled as they wove around Fiona, who’s stuck close to the wonderful, wonderful fire. “Aye, that’d be Quin’s touch. Dinner is her territory and don’t anybody say nothing about it.”

One of the ladies cut in, taking her own meal and darting back to hurriedly eat it down. “’Least I’ve got it for breakfast, otherwise where would you lot be?”

“Hungry in the morning!” another girl shouted over her shoulder as she shoved out the door with plates for those in the tavern.

Quin huffed, “ _ Lori _ .”

“As if you’d get out of bed for anything short of the entire place burning down around your ears in the morning,” Lori rolled her eyes. “You’re just lucky I’m a baker and an early riser to boot.”

“An’ I thank the stars and sea winds tha’ brought me ‘ere for it ev’ryday, else ev’ryone else’d be eatin’ breakfast a’ high noon.”

“And I as well,” Lori replied, pecking Quin on the cheek. “Now, I’m off to bed, ladies and girlies! We’ve fresh buns and rolls tomorrow!”

Various expressions of thanks and bids of goodnight (some more raucous and raunchy than others) washed over the room, and Fiona felt herself relax. There’s none of the tension, here, that was strung through the Citran refugee camp, tighter than any of the ropes on their tents. She wasn’t responsible for or feeling guilty over anyone’s potential losses here, and there wasn’t any mistreatment she could see. The people around her were relaxed, and more welcoming than others she’s met were initially – or even later, when she left – like the dryads of Brokilon.

And suddenly enough, she was tired, but she had a stack of dishes waiting for her, and no one was prying, so she’d leave the introductions to tomorrow.

Fiona finished the dishes through sheer desire to take a bath, and finally was able to rinse herself off with the remaining clean, cold water that another girl had brought her periodically so the dishes were actually clean. She huddled in her underclothes as Quin took her up a floor to another room, one she’d share with the three other girls who work as tavern maids.

One of them was also yawning when they all bid Quin a “G’night.” The other two were also clearly ready to sleep as well, for all their muttering and whispers about what had happened this past evening. Instead of eavesdropping, Fiona burrowed beneath the blanket she was borrowing and slept, deep and dreamless.

* * *

Kudos and comments always gladly received! It might take me a bit to reply, but I'm always super happy to get them!!!  
  


~Fins


	2. Chapter 2: In which Ciri officially becomes a tavern girl and her plan begins to grow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ciri officially becomes a tavern girl and her plan begins to grow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (bc I'm creative with my chapter titles....not.)
> 
> Also, chapters don't all need to be about the same length, right? Okay, cool! This one is longer, anyways!
> 
> Also also, the last chapter I'm aiming to have up next Wednesday, since it's mostly done! Yay! Fingers crossed for if it actually works out, haha.
> 
> Warnings for: implied sex work (by adults), allusions to canonical character death (it's Calanthe), and continued attempts at writing a brogue.  
> (I'm updating the tags to also say references to sex work and brothels as well, sorry for forgetting that!)

* * *

Morning found Fiona awake and wondering if she didn’t quite think this whole agreement through as she tried to not tear through her roll while sitting next to Maggie, the other girl who’d fallen asleep quickly last night, and across from Lara and Verri, who’d stayed awake to talk a little. Lori had knocked on their door just a bit ago and told them that breakfast was ready, and all of them had bolted into their clothes and down to the kitchen. Fiona was in heaven – she’d never thought she’d miss bread so much.

But she also knows she’d rushed the decision – it’d seemed a good idea at the time, especially since Quin seemed very protective of the tavern maids, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t want something else (or that she could be everywhere all the time, if she was as nice as she seemed). Fiona being here also didn’t mean that she’d hear anything about Geralt of Rivia, or anything that she could use to find him, but it could mean that the man in black armor could find her more easily. The man had seen her, after all, and while there were not many portraits of her in the castle, there were some that she hadn’t been able to escape sitting for. Although, considering how much fire had been used by the Nilfgaardian army, maybe none of them survived.

Fiona began to pick at the remains of her roll instead of gobbling it up as she had been initially, her appetite waning as her swirling thoughts fed off of each other. She also couldn’t help the pangs of melancholy at the thought of none of those paintings surviving -- she hadn’t liked them, still didn’t like them, but they were reminders of her family.

Verri picked up on Fiona’s change in mood first. “Don’t worry – Quin’ll be up soon and then you can talk over payment and such. If you’ve no home, you won’t be turned out, and she pays really well! We all get food and board taken out of our pay, so we make less coin than the other girls that come by now and again in the evenings, but it evens out in the end. I’ve been here three years, and thing’s’ve been going well for me since!”

Fiona startled a little at the bubbly girl, but nodded in thanks.

“Thank you. I’ve been wandering since my grandmother died and it’s been…hard,” she said around a lump in her throat she couldn’t quite swallow. It was true enough, in any event.

Maggie hummed. “I also only found my way herer and to Quin after my older brother died on the road, and it was just me, but I hope you’ll be happy. It’s nice here.”

Fiona smiled and it was a little strained and maybe a little watery (which was only partially for show). “Thanks.”

Maggie smiled back, and Verri beamed. Lara gave her a smirk over her bun, but it wasn’t malicious, and only half full of mischief.

If nothing else, it would be nice to be around people again and not alone on the road. It hasn’t been all that long since Fiona left the Forest of Brokilon, or since Dara had left her, but it felt much, much longer…and even though moss or hammocks could be very comfortable, it was so very nice to sleep in a bed again.

By the time Quin came down the stairs for her own breakfast, Lara had taken it upon herself to educate Fiona on a selection of the various entertaining stories that she’d heard, overheard, seen, or otherwise participated in creating.

“…and that’s why the sign’s in such a state of disrepair, and we call the tavern the Snuggly Duckling.”

Fiona had tears pouring down her cheeks from laughing so hard and was wheezing in a way she hadn’t for years (in part because it was improper for a princess to laugh so, no matter how little her grandmother herself might have cared). Maggie was also laughing, face down on the table and making it shake in time with her body, while Verri tried to giggle through her hiccups. Lori looked on fondly, as did a number of other men and women as they stood or sat to eat their own breakfasts or passed through the kitchen to see to their own duties of the day.

“Lara, must ye tell ev’ryun’ that version o’the story?”

“Of course!” Lara replied, voice bright. “You won’t tell it and Lori loves you too much, so it’s down to me since of the four of us at the table I’m the only one who was there.”

“Aye, as a five-yer-old.”

“And I remember it.”

“Not the things ‘bout Lori ye don’.”

“But it’s true.”

“No’ som’in’ ye rem’mber though.”

Lara puffed out her cheeks, scowled, and muttered, “Lori told me, though, so it’s true, and I remember her telling me, so yes, I do remember,” which was enough to make Quin break into a laugh, too.

Lori shook her head as she moved to greet Quin with a peck on the cheek and a tight hug, which Quin returned in kind with a grin. “Every time a new girl comes,” she said with a fond sigh, arm tucked around Quin’s waist.

“And every time it’s funny,” Verri said, barely understandable between her continued giggles and hiccups, Maggie (presumably) nodding in agreement, as the table shook a little more. She still hadn’t recovered her breath, although she had more or less stopped laughing.

“So ye say,” Quin said with a sigh that was equally as fond as the one Lori had just left out.

“So we say,” Lori agreed. “I’ve a few things to pick up from the market that’s still going on -- someone said that one of the merchants had some candied fruits from other areas, and I just know that those prices are only going to get higher. I know some of the girls were saying they were low on things. Is there anything else you want me to stock up on?”

“Nah,” Quin replied with a shake of her head. “Stocked up yesterday.”

“Alright. I’ll see you for lunch. Bye all!”

Fiona joined in the chorus of goodbyes as Lori headed from the kitchen and into the tavern proper.

“Lemme eat, ‘n then we’ll talk,” Quin said, grabbing a bun herself and leaning against the table as people continued to bustle around.

Fiona couldn’t help the dread that settled to swirl in her gut like wet sand, or the mud she’d put in her hair, but she didn’t show it. Still, it was interesting to see how Quin interacted with everyone – and the things that kept interrupting her eating.

“Noah, ye ken that’s no’ how yer suppos’d ta handle the ale kegs,” she scolded around a mouthful of bread. Only to have to drop her bun on the table to save the keg from falling and spilling all over the floor as Noah lost the precarious balance he had with the three ale kegs he’d been holding in front of him like they were on a tray for whatever reason.

One of the men that Fiona hadn’t been introduced to (or heard the name of, yet), t’sk’d and grabbed one of the remaining two kegs in Noah’s arms and followed Quin alongside Noah.

“C’mon, if it’s strength training you want, that’s not how to do it and you know it. We’ll work on it after lunch.”

“Here, Quin,” one of the women said before they’re much into the main room, since Fiona could clearly hear the conversation over the general murmuring in the main room, “I’ll take it.”

“Thanks, Morag.”

Quin, freed from the keg, returned to the table to take another bite or two of her bun before she swore lightly and made to return to the main room after hearing a shout. She’d barely taken two steps before Noah rushed back in with a slight limp and his hands full of a tankard, as he said, “It’s fine! It’s fine! I just accidently set the keg down on my foot!”

“An’ tha’d be why ye should ask fer help,” Quin sighed, just like Fiona’s grandmother would sigh sometimes, when she and her grandfather had gotten up to childish mischief or mistakes.

“Yeah, I know, but you’re all busy,” he muttered to the table as he placed the tankard in front of Quin.

“No’  _ tha’ _ busy,” she replied, but lifted the tankard with a smile and took a drink.

“Alright, alright,” Noah replied, blushing. “I’ll ask next time.”

“Aye, an’ don’ ferget after a week.”

“I won’t,” he mumbled.

Quin rolled her eyes and hummed. Fiona blinked, realizing she’d drifted a bit and appeared to have been paying Quin and Noah quite a bit of attention…only to have realized that Lara had also been observing the conversation keenly. Verri just looked amused at her friend and Maggie, longsuffering.

“She’ll be ever so pleased he’ll not be injuring himself for a week,” Maggie whispered to Ciri, jerking a finger at Lara while pretending to adjust her dark hair. “He’s sweet on her, y’see.”

“Does she like him back?”

Maggie shrugged. “She doesn’t seem opposed, but they’re young yet and Quin and Lori’ll want her to have a good solid future even if she doesn’t end up inheriting the tavern, which is the current plan.”

“She can’t hold the tavern while married?”

Maggie shook her head, “Not’n keep full control in law.”

“I see,” Fiona murmured. Ciri had always thought of Cintra as her grandmother’s kingdom, that it would be her kingdom, but that wasn’t necessarily true….Easy to forget, though, in the face of Calanthe –.

“It’s years off yet, at any rate,” Verri added from across the table.

Lara blinked, “Are you talking about me’n Noah?”

“No, we’re talking about you and Mislav.”

“Who I wouldn’t marry if he were the last man in Cintra, or Nilfgaard, or anywhere else,” Lara said firmly.

“I think if anyone suggested marriage to you, he’d run screaming for the mountains, Lara,” Quin added dryly.

“As he should,” she nodded.

Fiona was incredibly curious as to how a girl only a few years older than her had managed to terrify someone  _ that much _ , if in part because that seemed like it’d be a good skill to learn, but Quin had finished off her tankard and her breakfast.

“Ask ‘er ‘bout it later, ‘t’s a good yarn.”

Fiona, and Maggie, too, to Fiona’s surprise, nodded.

“I wasn’t there when it happened, and every time she retells it since I’ve arrived, I’ve been pulled away or something has interrupted the retelling,” Maggie said, looking a bit peeved at all the previous occasions she’d been cheated from hearing the whole tale.

“I’ll do my best to include you, this time,” Lara teased.

“I’ll help,” Verri added with a wide smile.

“But firs’ ye’ll do yer work,” Quin cut in with a grin. “Go on, the tables’re waitin’ fer ye, an’ the wash, too.”

“If you  _ insist _ , Quin…” Lara sighed, though she couldn’t quite hide her grin. Verri and Maggie followed her out into the main area.

“Now,” Quin said to Fiona, “le’s talk.”

Fiona gulped, but everyone else just kept on moving in the background.

“Ah ken yer alone’n have been fer a bit, but if’n ye stay ‘ere ye’ll get three meals a’day, bed’n a space in the room, ‘n some pay fer clothes ‘n all. If’n ye wan’ta leave, yer more’n welcome ta, but I’d ‘preciate it if ye culd let me ‘re Lori ken so’s we don’t send a search party fer ya.”

“Alright.” Fiona could probably do that – unless there was another raid by Nilfgaardians, but Quin and Lori would have other things to worry about then. (The Cintrans she’d stayed with for an ill-fated night certainly had.)

Quin nodded, “Righ’. Yer free fer whatever time’s between ye fin’shin’ yer work and when th’ folks start in fer dinner. If’n ye don’, ye won’ get paid fer the work ye didn’ do, but ye’ll still get yer food ‘n room ‘n bed. If’n ye don’ fer a reason – like yer sick‘re som’in’, then we’ll work som’in’ out.”

Fiona nodded, too. That seemed fair to her – she’d had a fair bit of free time as a Princess of Cintra, but she wasn’t raised to be too idle. And it was nice of Quin to not withhold food for lack of work – as Ciri she’d gone to bed without dinner a time or two because she didn’t do her work…mostly because she’d slipped out to play instead. Fiona, having been going hungry since she fled the city around the Cintran castle, very much appreciated not having to worry about food.

“Any questions?”

Fiona hesitated. Now would be the perfect time to ask about Geralt of Rivia, but…was it really? She wasn’t sure she could trust Quin – she’d trusted Dara, with her full name and pretty much everything, even, but he’d left; she hadn’t trust the Cintran refugees with her name, which was just as well given their suffering and how they’d ended up dead by Nilfgaardians or by beings they’d mistreated. Fiona bit her lip. She wanted to ask, just in case something happened and she had to leave quickly again, but was it worth it?

Quin raised an eyebrow at her when she finally shook her head, but didn’t prompt her to tell her beyond saying, “Well, if’n ye’ve any questions, ye can ask later.”

Fiona noddd.

“Alrigh’, well. Go on then – ye’ve the dishes again, this mornin’, ‘n here’re some coin fer clothes ’t the market when yer done. Verri’s always ‘appy to look’it clothes if’n ye want comp’ny, but if’n ye finish quick, Lori’ll also be ‘round t’elp.”

“Thank you, Quin.”

~IiI~

Fiona headed back to the washing, finishing the small pile of dishes quickly. Maggie stops by and asks for help with some of the bedding, so they both venture to the guests’ room and strip the linens.

The first few rooms were relatively clean, and so went quickly -- Maggie quickly pointing out which bits went into which baskets, with a bit of advice to come back later when people were in, but before dinner and the drinking, to see if they wanted their clothes laundered for an extra fee. It was easy work, although increasingly the linens they came across were musky smelling, sweaty, and possibly covered in questionable stains.

Fiona didn’t say anything about it, but those bedclothes certainly led her to believe that tavern girls weren’t the only people employed at Quin’s tavern.

“What do you normally do for work here?” Fiona asked, instead. What was normal work for tavern girls was to be what her jobs were, after all. Even if she was a little curious…. “I know I’ve done the washing for the dishes, and now we’re doing the linens and later perhaps the clothes, but that can’t be the only things I’ll do, right?”

Maggie shook her head. “We rotate between jobs every fortnight – the girl who was here before you just so happened to apprentice to the one weaver in town, right before she was set to take over the dishes from me.

“Not that she liked doing the dishes, anyways,” Maggie added as an aside with a laugh. “Not that I like them either – crusty food on plates and cold-ish water? That I’m not fond of much. Linens aren’t much better, but at least most things don’t have food encrusted on them.”

Fiona shrugged, “It’s not so bad – having soap is nice.”

Maggie laughed again, “Yes! I think that’s one of the best parts of dish and linen duty – I was on the road by myself for months and I could never manage to get enough coin for soap. Not and eat, at least.”

“Soap is definitely the best part of washing,” Fiona agreed, leaving out her own experiences and how soap wasn’t even on her list of priorities since leaving the capitol until she saw it with the rag to wash the dishes. Now that she was thinking about it, though, there might be another advantage to washing the dishes and linens, namely being able to wash her own clothes.

But first, there was another part of her plan she needed to enact.

“Maggie, we don’t have coffee grounds or tea or something like that, do we?”

Maggie blinked. “Well, of course.”

She didn’t ask how Fiona missed the smell of it that morning, not when the girl had barely managed to finish her bun, in stark contrast to how she’d fallen on her stew the previous night. Given how she’d initially torn into it, her lack of appetite had nothing to do with liking bread or not.

“Since they’re just going to be thrown out in the end…do you think Quin would let me have the leftover grounds or leaves? I’ve heard they can be used to dye hair and I know it’s a little silly, but my hair is light enough that it reminds me of my grandmother’s…” Fiona let her statement trail off. It was, of course, a total lie, as her grandmother had had darker hair than Ciri’s since Ciri had been born. Even barely rinsed, to preserve at least some of the disguise she’d created.

Maggie stared at her a moment, thinking. “I don’t think Quin would mind – she usually just adds them back to the garden or something…I’m not sure how well it would work to change your hair color, though.” She gestured to her own dark hair a little helplessly.

“It’s fine – even just a little bit different would help. I just keep catching sight of it out of the corner of my eye, and...”

Maggie nodded sympathetically. “Let’s ask at lunch then. That’s when the left overs are usually rounded up anyways.”

Fiona nodded, and they went back to finishing rounding up the linens that needed cleaning. Maggie was nice enough to stay and helped by bring fresh water for Fiona, even if she wasn’t at all interested in actually helping directly with the wash. Considering how cold, and heavy, the water was, Fiona counted herself lucky that she didn’t have to bring it up alone in addition to scrubbing at questionable substances that didn’t want to leave the fabric. Maggie was also fine with catching Fiona up on all sorts of tips and tricks and gossip that she herself found useful while settling in at the Snuggly Duckling when she stopped for a break of hauling water and helped scrubbed the generally cleaner linens. Maggie even going so far as to confirm, “Yes, if you’re ever not sure of how to get back here from somewhere in town – not sure how good you are with directions, but the girl who’d just left before Quin found you couldn’t find her way out of a holey burlap sack – or you need to be back in a hurry, if you call this place the Snuggly Duckling anyone you talk to – if they live here – will know where you’re talkin’ about.”

“I didn’t think Lara was just making the story up, given how Quin and Lori reacted earlier, but it’s still a little odd.”

Maggie nodded emphatically in agreement. “I’m used to seein’ ‘Claw’s and Creature’s Tavern,’ or a family name before ‘tavern’ on the sign, but gettin’ here was the first time I’d seen or heard of something like ‘Snuggly Duckling.’ And then having people still come and use that name for it, too.”

Fiona let that thread of conversation die, even if she was really very curious as to how many taverns and inns Maggie had seen. She didn’t want to talk about her own experiences, though, and she was now warier of potentially poking other’s sore spots – Dara had driven that point home for her.

Maggie fell quiet for a bit – maybe that comment about taverns was supposed to be a signal for Fiona to have shared about her own experiences? Not talking to people had evidently affected her ability to socialize….

However, Maggie rallied around a new topic when Lori and Quin could be heard moderating a debate on what should be made for the dinner special that coming weekend.

Fiona continued to wash the linens, and later another pile of dishes, listening as Maggie talked about all the various special meals Quin and Lori had made together, what her and Verri and Lara’s respective favorite dishes were, some regular’s favorites, and assorted stories about how some of those decisions as to what was really the best dish, came to be made. Little things that let Fiona gain a sense of who was who, and who she’d see the most often, in addition to getting to know more about the girls she’d be working and living with, and Quin and Lori, themselves. It wasn’t court politics, or even the slightly bizarre arrangement she’d had with some of the other children in the castle, but it was more than enough to make her feel warm with appreciation.

Eventually, though, Fiona’s chores were finished for the moment, and Maggie and she popped into the kitchen to ask Quin about the used coffee grounds.

“I don’ see why not,” she replied, a little bemused. “No’ thought o’ tha’ use meself, but if’n it’ll make ye feel better and ye’ve an idea on how t’do it, ‘t’s fine w’me.”

With that, and a promise to put the used coffee grounds aside for her to collect later, Fiona and Maggie set off to find Verri, who had apparently finished only slightly earlier than Fiona and headed straight to the market.

~IiI~

“Fiona! Quin’d give you some coin for a new dress’r two?” Verri all but shouted when she caught sight of them at the market.

Most of the other people around them, town locals and merchants alike, chuckled at the enthusiastic young woman. Fiona, however, was feeling a little concerned by both the amount of attention Verri’s shout had attracted, and by Verri’s intense look at the prospect of clothes. Even if the clothes were for Fiona, and not Verri herself.

“Yes, a few coins – I don’t need that much though.”

“Nonsense,” Verri and Maggie both said, nearly cutting her off. They exchanged a look.

“I’ll go with her for underthings, if you find a few swatches of fabric, or old dresses we can alter?” Maggie offered. “She’s meaning to darken her hair a bit, though.”

“Oooo, I’ve always wanted to see how that worked, but I was never brave enough to give it a go on my own hair,” Verri said, twirling a golden blond lock around her finger. “I’ll look for a little lighter color palate, then.”

“Alright. Come along then,” Maggie said to Fiona. Ciri had had plenty of dresses and experience with young noble women at court at their dresses (and their older sister’s dresses, and their mother’s dresses, and their aunt’s dresses…). She didn’t particularly dislike clothes and the occasional new dress, but really didn’t see the point of spending so much time talking about them after a point. Her grandmother also had limited patience with dresses – less than Ciri had, in fact. So, since it was her grandmother buying her the dresses, the tailors and seamstresses came to them, rather than what Fiona was now experiencing, and things had progressed significantly faster.

It was more than a little different, now though – it was about blending in, and also finally having clean things to wear. It was about living, even if Cintra had fallen.

“Um, alright,” Fiona said a bit timidly. Even as Ciri she’d not had someone this intent on dressing  _ her _ who was so close in age. Usually it had been a very enthusiastic seamstress.

Maggie led her to one of the stores, rather than a cart.

“They have the best cloth here,” Maggie said. “Easy to clean and comfortable. Normally I’d take you to the merchants, but given that Cintra’s fallen things’ll be more expensive from merchants, as I bet you know from listening to complaints, while things should’ve stayed more or less the same for the cloth we’ll be looking at here, since it’s from more local crops and animals.”

Fiona grinned a little uncertainly – she’d heard of different kinds of complaints when war was associated with something, and she kept forgetting that, though she was more used to thinking of potential troop movements or supply lines and not cloth prices...but supplies had to come from somewhere. And local provisions were a good resource, provided someone could ensure that they weren’t tampered with or poisoned to disadvantage the army. Thinking that way, though, led to thoughts of Cintra made her want to wince, because they then began to bring up memories and imaginings of what had happened, was happening, to her grandmother’s kingdom, her kingdom.

Touching each piece of a small subset of fabric that Maggie had collected for her, Fiona honestly couldn’t tell the difference between them. They all felt relatively rough compared to her usual fine cotton shifts and underclothes…but they also felt significantly better than what she was currently (still) wearing. Washing herself was all well and good, but she’d had to choose between washing herself and her clothes. And she’d needed it more, though she had tried to at least remove most of the obvious mud and filth from her cloak, too.

“I’m really not sure which to pick – they all feel fine.”

Maggie eyed her for a moment before she returned her attention to the selection she had made. “Hmm, I suppose…”

Fiona really just wanted a new shift at this point. Since Maggie pointed out underclothes had made her think of the ones she was still wearing…and how it itched.

“We can make you bindings out of your current shift, and some kind of underclothes from the leftovers of your new shift….that should be fine.”

Maggie held out her hand for the coins Quin had given Fiona, who gave them to her so she could engage in the time-honored tradition of haggling.

(Fiona rather felt like she should be asking for lessons from Maggie in this regard – not even her economics or trade tutors had been so enthusiastic or so ruthless.

(Later Fiona would find out that everyone in town was well aware of Maggie’s haggling skills, and that she was actually the final test many an apprentice would face. If they could argue with Maggie about price and actively and successfully haggle with her, then they ought to have no problems with any future customers of the non-bandit variety.)

For the moment, however, Maggie haggled and Fiona watched, enchanted. She took mental notes, although they were incomplete because she had no real idea how much a piece of cloth like what Maggie was buying would normally cost. Still, she noticed the banter Maggie added, to ensure there were no hard feelings, and how the person at the counter would banter with her; how Maggie would lounge a bit or straighten her spine depending on what was going on and if the woman was trying to get away with too much. She’d only had to glare at her the one time, but the woman backed down quickly when she did and things got more serious so they could finish up.

Eventually, the cloth was bought and they exited the store to find Verri with the merchants.

“I’ve found a few older dresses that we can take in and alter for you,” Verri started as soon as they came into view, and nearly bursting with excitement, “but you’ll need to tell me if you like them or not. Because your choices are important.”

“And Quin had to remind you of that last bit far too much for you t’forget it, right?” Maggie said with a grin.

“You would’ve looked lovely in that dress, for the record,” Verri replied with a sniff, sticking her nose in the air.

“And it was in my least favorite color.”

“And it looked lovely with your skin and hair.”

Maggie rolled her eyes.

“Anyways,” Verri clapped her hands, “they’re this way!”

Fiona exchanged a look with Maggie before following Verri to the stall she’d found at least one of the dresses at. At least Fiona now had the assurance of at least one new shift and some underthings to look forward to.

~IiI~

That night, Quin let all of them off early so they could work on Fiona’s new clothes, with the blessing of a number of the women, and a few men, who appeared around dinner time in various pretty and somewhat revealing clothes.

“Let ‘em have some fun!” One of the woman had called, “We can take care’f things t’night!”

“As long as you make it clear to the boys, Morag, that this is a one-night only thing!” Another woman called. “They don’t need any ideas.”

“They won’t be gettn’ any from me! An’ Rob’s got the rest of yeh, right?”

“Right! We’ve got shifts worked out for all of us, who’s up front, who’s back behind, and who’s upstairs.”

Quin rolled her eyes at that point and gestured for Fiona and the rest to hurry upstairs as Rob called out names.

Lori stopped by later to give them pointers on hems and how to make the most of the shift fabric Maggie had bought. Some of the other ladies also gave tips on how best to tuck fabric away so they didn’t have to cut it when trying to make it fit Fiona, or what kinds of ornaments Fiona could add if she learned to make lace or knit or embroider. They might’ve also been there for the basket of sweet rolls Lori left them with when she’d headed off to bed, far earlier than most at the tavern, but Fiona wouldn’t blame them. They were soft, and had honey and some dried fruits in them, too, and they’d just become her favorite treat.

Lara had looked very smug at this declaration, much to Maggie and Verri’s exasperation.

“Just because you two aren’t fond of dried fruit doesn’t mean that other people can’t! Fiona’s on my side -- finally, we equal them!”

They’d all laughed at that.

The women and a few men (and Fiona was doing her best to keep names and faces straight, but it was difficult, even with as small as the shared room was and limiting the number of people in it at one time) may have also come for a break, here and there, considering some of the complaints Fiona couldn’t help but overhear. Some of the complaints were fairly explicit as to why Quin’d been so specific on what her duties were, confirming her own suspicions that this wasn’t just a tavern but also something of a brothel, but none of the visitors to the tavern girls’ room that night were complaining about the job so much as their clients’ various shortcomings.

Fiona had to strangle a snicker at that, which Maggie caught and nudged her into sharing and soon enough the whole room was making jokes and puns and innuendos of the  _ mostly _ mild variety.

It was a good night.

* * *

Kudos, comments and concrit welcome!

~Fins


	3. In which Ciri’s plan comes to fruition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or: Ciri learns more about Geralt of Rivia in one conversation (and subsequent gossip) than however many months she’s been on the run, and then meets the man)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!!!!! YAY!
> 
> Sorry for not posting as promised yesterday, but it's still Wednesday somewhere right? (It is definitely still Wednesday somewhere.)
> 
> BUT! The end is here! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this final chapter! I probably could've written more, but unfortunately my muse has decided that we're now going to binge read YGO fics. ...yeah, I'm not quite sure why, but there you go.
> 
> WARNINGS: Innuendos, the use of the word cock, innuendos, vaguely alluded to sex work by adults.
> 
> Hopefully Quin's bit in the middle isn't too hard to understand, but please let me know if it is and/or I screwed up at all!

* * *

Fiona, after nearly a month of working at the Snuggly Duckling, had begun to feel much more settled. She had a roof over her head, guaranteed food (that included bread!) everyday, a warm place to sleep, and clothes and the chance to bathe. She also had people to talk to, which was something she’d very much missed, even for the short times she’d been alone. The people who lived or worked at the Snuggly Duckling knew her as Fiona, with hair that was much closer to brown than silvery-blonde, and a few simple dresses.

Changing her hair color had been an adventure, though, with Verri considering the tea and coffee grounds and deeming them insufficient. So she had added a bit of woad she may or may not have flirted with someone for, to “deepen the color.” Maggie had also helped, although she’d clearly been a little doubtful as to how well this whole process would work -- Fiona couldn’t blame her, since she wasn’t quite sure, either. Nevertheless, Maggie had been happy enough to help Fiona smear the resulting mixture all over her hair, and then wrap it with some of the scraps from Fiona’s old shift. The resulting color was significantly darker than her usual silver-blonde and Fiona couldn’t be happier.

Everyone who visited the Snuggly Duckling though, didn’t appear to think much on how her hair color had changed (likely helped by how much mud it had still had that first day or so Fiona had been there), and beyond her appearance, knew Fiona as the tavern girl who didn’t mind scrubbing dishes, loved to help Quin make dinner or Lori with baking on the odd occasion that she needed it, and was a little wary of serving people. They all thought that had to do with her having fled the besieged Cintran capital (or thereabouts), and let her be.

None of them suspected that there was more to her story -- other refugees had passed through, including two from the camp that Fiona had stumbled upon, once, though they hadn’t recognized her -- and she was just another tavern girl hard on her luck that Quin had helped out.

And Quin had been honest and true in her rules and explanations to Fiona. Quin’d been strict on enforcing her rules, too. “No” meant “no,” and the most interaction Fiona ever had to do with the customers was serve them tankards or plates or bowls of food or occasionally ask if they wanted their washing done (but the others who worked the brothel aspect usually asked, just to make sure no one got any ideas). And the one time someone from out of town had stopped by and tried for a wandering hand, Quin’d been there breathing fire and fury down upon him. The ladies, as she’d come to know was their general preference for address as a group, who did deal in their bodies had also refused to even look at him and he’d hurried out of town pretty quickly. Lara had switched roles with her that night too, the better to grin evilly at the man and make it clear that she was skilled with knives. Very skilled.

There’d not been any further incidents, but there also hadn’t been that many new people in town recently either.

Lori -- and anyone else who had made great use of the market that had arrived the same day as Fiona -- was correct in her assumption that with Cintra fallen, there would be no more markets for awhile. No one was (visibly) overly concerned as of yet, but Fiona had caught whispers here and then when she’d been out serving.

“What’ll we do if Nilfgaard hasn’t let up by next fall?”

“We’ve a stockpile of grain and seeds, but that’ll get boring and we’ll still need some for replanting in the spring -- we’ll have to plan to send out more hunting parties further afield. It’ll be risky, though, with patrols.”

Others were worried about cloth, or thread, or metals, or stone. From what Fiona could tell, metal would be the biggest problem -- for coin, for common objects, and for necessary repairs. A town, even as large as this one, had limited use for stone, and they had enough sheep and a few crops of hemp and other plants that at the very least they would self sufficient for a year. Any brides (and a few grooms) would be horribly disappointed, though.

“Why couldn’t they have come next year, the bastards. Then I’d’ve least been wed -- I’d been dreaming of that damn lace from the South for _years_ ,” was a complaint often voiced by one of the ladies, with whom some of the other regular women would commiserate.

The grooms also complained, but when they were in the mood, they were usually already quite drunk, so their comments and woes were much harder for Fiona to pick apart.

Despite the woes of those to be wed (and others) and looming threat of the Nilfgaardian army, Fiona was feeling much more comfortable than she had when she’d originally arrived, and as much as she’d let her plan fade a little as she focused on settling into her job and her identity, she’d not stopped thinking about her grandmother’s last order.

She’d woken up that night thinking about that order, and when she’d discovered that the water pitcher in the room was empty (Verri was probably the culprit, since she hated to go downstairs after she’d gotten ready for bed), she’d brought the pitcher down in the hope that there was enough water in the barrel to fill it a little.

Finding Quin down in the kitchen when she’d wandered down had brought her plan to the front of her mind. After all, she’d found an inn or tavern -- or a brothel in this case, blended in with a job, and she was gathering information, but she still didn’t know enough to find Geralt of Rivia, nor had he chanced to stop by the town. But, Quin had travelled a fair bit before settling down here after meeting Lori, so she might know something….

Quin was poking at the fire, banking it so it’d be easy to coxe back into being later in the day, but she clearly felt Fiona’s eyes on her from where she’d been getting water from the kitchen pitcher.

“Out with it, girlie, ‘therwise it’ll jest eat at ye,” Quin said, throwing her a knowing look.

“My grandmother told me to find someone, before she died.”

Quin hummed.

“I’ve never met him, I don’t think, and I don’t know where he is, or anything about him…but there has to be a reason she told me to find him.”

“’s not yer father, er som’one like tha, is he?” Quin asked delicately.

Fiona shook her head, still marveling at the darker strands that would fly past her face when they escaped her braid at night, or her bun while she was working. “I don’t think so. I know who my parents were, and they died together on a trip when I was little – they were merchants, see, but after they died my grandmother took me in. We worked for another merchant as a maid, in my case, and an advisor of sorts in my grandmother’s, since she’d had a lot of experience with helping my grandfather.”

“Well, who’re ye lookin’ fer?”

Fiona released a breath. “Geralt of Rivia.”

“Well ‘e isn’t yer father tha’s fer sure,” Quin muttered. “Like as no’ ‘e’ll be ‘round ‘ere soon enough, at some point ‘er another, though. ‘Speci’ly given th’ way the war’s goin’.”

Fiona can’t help that she perked up at the thought of meeting the man her grandmother said was her destiny. She wasn’t quite sure what the war had to do with it – if the man were a Cintran knight she’d have at least _heard_ of him…. “What else can you tell me about him?”

“He’s a Witcher – stops in on occasion when goin’ from th’ North t’Cintra ‘r a bit further south, as we’re the biggest town fer a while.”

Seeing Fiona’s confusion, Quin continued. “He’s a monster ‘unter. Got som’in’ tha’ ye cannae kill, or’s killin’ all yer animals ‘r people – them’s the one’s ye look fer. Also’s in a number’f songs, though I dun’ken ‘ow true they’re.

“Som’o them’ve got ‘im as a right creature o’ fortune, killin’ monsters ‘n takin’ only coin fer ‘t. Som’ve got ‘im as monster ‘imself, though’f a more ‘uman disposish’n, while other’s’ve got ‘im as a man with’a bit’ve a soft ‘eart, ‘specially t’a lady ‘r bairn in need.

“Most ken’f ‘im’s the Butcher of Blaviken, ‘r else as the White Wolf, dependin’ on which’ve ‘em song’s ye like best.”

Fiona blinked, trying to commit every single sentence Quin’d told her to memory. “What do you think of him, Quin?”

“’e’s quiet, gruff, som’times ev’n kind, least ways, ‘e was when ‘e’d stayed ‘ere in the past. Never stays long, ‘n contracts aren’t much ‘round ‘ere. No’nough trouble for’em monsters.”

Fiona wasn’t quite sure if that made Geralt of Rivia a good man or not, but he was at least good enough for Quin to seemingly approve of him.

Quin stayed silent while Fiona mulled over this new information.

“I’m not sure why my grandmother told me to find him,” Fiona started slowly, quietly, because she’d told this to Dara, once, and she’d tell it to Quin, because Quin hadn’t nearly died three times, and Quin wasn’t going to leave her, and Quin had told her more about the mysterious man who was supposed to be her destiny than anyone else had, when she’d never heard of him before, or heard of Witchers beyond mentions in history.

And maybe because Quin was an adult, and Fiona -- Ciri -- Fiona, was tired of running and relying on herself.

“My grandmother’d never mentioned him before,” Fiona continued, a little faster, but slow enough that she could stick to her story, “I’d never heard of him before Nilfgaard came to the capitol and started burning things. She told me to run, and to find Geralt of Rivia, because he was my destiny, but I’m not sure what that even means.”

“Destiny, eh? Well, people’re usin’ ‘destiny’ nowadays t’mean lot’s’a thin’s, but ‘t’s what ye make’v it. What do ye wan’ yer destiny ta be, Fiona?”

Fiona didn’t know what she wanted her destiny to be. She didn’t even exist as a person, not really, so how could “Fiona” have a destiny at all?

Cirilla’s destiny was to survive, was to retake Cintra, somehow, to defeat Nilgaard, presumably, and then go on to have children to inherit the Cintran throne, and rule well alongside...well, somebody.

Ciri, though, Ciri wasn’t sure what she wanted her destiny to be. Maybe to be strong enough to fight her battles and not run all the time, to be strong enough to protect her family and friends? That’d be nice. And if Geralt of Rivia was a monster hunter, well. He could teach her, right?

Fiona didn’t reply to Quin, but Quin nodded all the same.

“Think on’t,” she said, and then bid Fiona goodnight.

Fiona absently replied the same, finished her water, and returned to bed, as thoughts whirled about her head.

~IiI~

As if Fiona’s questions and Quin’s replies had broken a dam of information, Fiona just the next night heard a group of increasingly drunk farmers singing a refrain about tossing a coin to your Witcher. She wasn’t quite sure what else happened in that particular song, since the farmers themselves couldn’t quite decide which had happened first -- the elves, or the selkie, or any of the other myriad of monsters or creatures that Fiona hadn’t ever quite known existed. But apparently they did, and apparently the Witcher who starred in the song was quite accomplished at killing monsters.

That was excellent news for Fiona’s desire to be skillful enough to protect her friends and family, but didn’t quite answer her lingering questions about what Witchers were _like_. On the other hand, she kept humming the chorus whenever she was helping with the washing or scrubbing down the tables or whatever else she needed to do that didn’t require her to think all that much. Maggie usually joined in, but Lara would start making up new lyrics to go along with the humming.

Some were fun, like when she’d called out orders for ale “Fetch an ale for this man here, at th’Snuggly Duckling, the Snuggly Duckling, oh oh oh oh,” and some were more scandalous. “Rest your wood down in her room, until the fat cock crows, until the fat cock crows, oh oh oh oh,” was one of Lara’s favorites, much to Fiona’s embarrassment. Lara could claim that she was only using a proper name and description for the rooster that lived a few streets over and whose cry was the common signal for the end of any extended stays with a whore, but everyone knew better.

Admittedly, the more scandalous and salacious versions were usually either picked up by the whores that Quin managed, or were removed from Lara’s repertoire after a scolding. She would still hum the tune with a smirk on her face, which told anyone watching that she was singing the dirtier versions in her head, but Lori wouldn’t go after her for that. Quin’d just rolled her eyes at it all, but Fiona and Verri (surprisingly not Maggie) always flushed a bright, bright red. Why did that song have to be so very easy to stick in one’s head?

That was the lightest parts of the recent weeks. Nilfgaardian patrols had been sighted by one of the hunting parties, and everyone was preparing for what the outcome might be if they stopped in town. Fortunately for the town, however, the greater bulk of the army seemed to be very distracted by a certain fort and pass three day’s ride north and east of them. While that clearly meant that officers would be stopping by soon for provisions, the whole army would not be.

Monster reports were also starting to flow in with the various returning hunting parties, as Fiona found when serving a tired, slightly bloody, group a round of ale one evening.

“Quin, I’ve not seen the like -- Nilfgaard’s just moving on, but there are piles of bodies in the forest now.”

Quin pressed her lips together. “No idea th’kind?”

The head of the party -- the man who’d offered Noah lessons, and seemed so gruff then -- shrugged and downed some more of his ale with a sigh. “None. Whatever it is, it’s feedin’ on the dead, and none of us liked the look of the corpses in the daylight to wait to see what’d come for them.”

“Fair’nough,” Quin said with a sigh. “Now we’ve only’ta get us a Witcher. An’ in _this_ mess’n all.”

Fiona, finished with passing out the ale and waiting for any orders for food, left to another table that was waving her down, but her heart had begun to beat faster.

A Witcher! Here! For bad reasons, no doubt, if monsters were nearby enough to call for one, but a Witcher!

She shared the story with the rest of the tavern maids that evening before they all go to sleep.

“What do you think?” She asked Lara.

“Who knows,” she replied. “Never been a Witcher here for a hunt as far as I know. We’re big enough to have a contract board, but mostly the people who use it to hire Witchers are farmers and others further north of us, who think that farming at the base of the mountains is the best place for it.”

Verri wrinkled her nose, “Hey, the soil composition is different, there, depending on the mountain --”

“Right, sorry! Sorry, forgot about that,” Lara said with a laugh, as Verri huffed at her, “Anyways, we don’ usually have monster problems here, so I don’ know what that’ll mean for us, or whatever person come’s round to claim the contract once it’s up.”

“What’s it mean for us about Nilfgaard, though?” Maggie asked, voice small. “The Cintran army was never as big as what people have said Nilfgaard now has, and we don’t really have all that much in extra supplies in town.”

Fiona also grimaced at that news. It shouldn’t have surprised her as much as it did, since she’d caught glimpses, here and there on errands and all, of what the various town supplies looked like, but it was a bucket of ice water to realize how much a large army could obliterate any extra they had.

That the army would certainly need more than they had, and have taken the capitol, had no reason not to as the Nilfgaardian empire expanded into Cintra. She didn’t know all the calculations, but she knew enough of how much one soldier could eat and she had seen part of the force that was set to ram through the nearby pass.

The other girls’ faces were equally grim.

“Well,” Verri said with a sigh, “Nothin’ doin’. Not like we can really influence what all is going to happen now.”

Lara nodded, “Quin’ll keep everyone in line if necessary, for the village at least, but we can only hope that the Witcher will get here soon, and if not, that the monsters will be keeping the Nilfgaardians away.”

It was Fiona’s turn to nod and add her thoughts. “ If they’re fighting a long war, they may not want to lose men to monsters if they can just ignore us and come back later if there’s any rebellion, but whatever supplies they could get from us might not make it back to the main army with monsters on the roads or in the woods. Also, since we’re not Nilfgaardian, they’re not going to think it’s all that important to help us, anyways, since if a Witcher doesn’t come, and we’re desperate enough to ask the Nilfgaardians, and they manage to get rid of the monsters, we’ll be thankful to them and much less hostile.”

Maggie hummed, as Lara and Verri stared a little, “It depends on which areas are affected and if the monsters spread enough to affect any kind of merchant or food lines the army has. If not, they won’t bother. If it does though….”

All of them sighed, contemplating what on earth the potential results could be.

Then Lara broke the silence. “Let’s not borrow trouble. Quin’ll put up the posting tomorrow and we’ll see what comes of it. Besides, it’s supposed to be a major wash day, tomorrow, so we all should get some sleep.”

Everyone muttered a quick, “g’night,” before rolling over and tucking themselves in blanket cocoons.

(Fiona dreamed that night of purple, purple eyes, and the sounds of hoofbeats. She dreamed of two swords and a wolf medallion.)

~IiI~

Everyone gathered in the square, the next morning.

Quin posted the sign.

Slowly, in groups of families and friends, everyone drifted back to the jobs and chores and lives.

~IiI~

The Snuggly Duckling was subdued that night, and there were no iterations of “Toss a coin to your Witcher.” Fiona thought it would have been more appropriate if there were, since the town was, after all, all hoping for a Witcher to arrive and would (presumably) pay him in coin.

However, Fiona also realized, as she was watching Quin put up the posting, that hiring a Witcher this close to the Nilfgaardian army could get them all killed. If only because someone from Nilfgaard might not realize that monsters are as big a problem as they are.

The other tavern girls were also somber -- even Lori was subdued -- but no one is interested in borrowing trouble, so everyone went to bed without speaking anything deeper than a “g’night.”

(Fiona dreamed of purple eyes, a sleek horse, of swords. The hoofbeats reverberated in the back of her skull when she woke up.)

~IiI~

A week passed. While still more subdued than normal, the Snuggly Duckling was full of the townsfolk even as they spent more time staring into their drinks or dinner than talking and carousing as usual. Fiona wasn’t entirely sure if they were waiting for the Witcher to come, or if they were coming for more news of Nilfgaard, or wanted to be present if more news of just about anything came. (And at night, her dreams were full of violet eyes and horse hooves and swords.)

The Snuggly Duckling stayed quiet and somber, until Fiona started serving drinks one night.

“Nilfgaard is tryin’ for the pass,” one of the outlying farmers said half to her and half to his new drink. He was absolutely covered in road dust, and even as Fiona served him his second ale, she could smell that he’d likely had more to drink before stopping at the Snuggly Duckling. That might have been why he proceeded to raise his voice and yell “Did you hear that, folks? Nilfgaard’s up to take the fort!”

At the mention of Nilfgaard, the crowd, which had yet to recover from the sobriety of posting the Witcher contract, despite it having been a week past, went silent.

This wasn’t an unusual way of breaking news, but Fiona (and from the faces Maggie and Lara were making -- Verri was in the back getting more beer -- they agreed) that this could have been pronounced more...gradually? Gently? _Something_ at least. Even if all three of them, and likely a good number of the townsfolk, were terrified by the news.

The silence lasted then, until one of the butcher’s boys, who was always rather loud, shouted across the room, “Take the fort from who, you turnip -- no one’s held that as a proper fort for ages!” 

The farmer rolled his eyes with his whole body to reply scornfully, “They’re there to take it from the _mages_ , and a bunch of refugees, or do I need to tell you the implications of that too, so your rotted squash-for-brains can handle that kind of information.”

Whispers erupted.

“The mages?”

“Refugees?”

“What are the mages getting involved for?”

“Really, the _mages_?”

Of course this is the exact moment, when everyone was murmuring in confusion and defiance and disbelief, that the front door opened and a stranger in a cloak entered. The cloak was a dull thing, brown and travel worn thin and not really the man’s size, but it looked like it did well enough to cut the wind a bit and maybe double as a blanket. That wasn’t why Fiona was staring, though.

The stranger moved slowly through the room, the better to avoid the increasing murmuring that Fiona wasn’t really paying any attention to. He wove around the various clumps of people, and then he was upon her, mouth open as if to ask... _something_ , _anything_ (and hindsight would tell her he would’ve been about to ask about the contract, or maybe even about her -- well, Ciri-her), but nothing came out of his mouth, because Fiona is hugging him, and he’s hugging her, awkwardly, but it still counts.

It was really, really fortunate for Fiona’s identity that everyone was so worked up about the mages and refugees (and they were her people, but what could she do to help them?), but most of her being was focused on the man in front of her, because there was no doubt at all that the man was Geralt of Rivia.

She’d found her destiny. She had no idea what kind of man he was, or how skilled he was, or anything beyond what songs said of Witchers and what Quin had told her. She was ready to find out. (Not really, as she found a few moments later, but for this one speck of time, she was ready.)

(Geralt, for his part, would have really liked to know if _this_ was what Renfri meant by “woods,” because he knew this tavern and what it doubles as, and it was definitely not where he was expecting to find Princess Cirilla. He also wasn’t sure how she had managed to get so far ahead of him. Geralt was not sure about a lot of things, frankly, but now they were together as destiny had planned. Or something.

What on earth was he supposed to do with a young princess on the run? Vesemir would be -- ah, that would work.)

* * *

And then they somehow explained this all to Quin, and then went to Kaer Mohren because you probably shouldn't take the princess into a battle involving an army of the people who destroyed and took over her kingdom's capital, sorry Yen.

(Also, Geralt has his swords, and armor, and maybe his potions bc dang it, if he took the castle back (ish) then why SHOULDN'T HE HAVE HIS STUFF? *coughs*)

Anyways, that's a wrap! I hope you enjoyed it!

Comments and kudos are always welcome!

~Fin

**Author's Note:**

> While so far as I've seen in-game, the inns and taverns have no upper floor, but it looks like there is one in Blaviken so....multi-story taverns!
> 
> Also, can anybody guess what the innuendo is in the title?


End file.
